


Dances of Duality

by PipesFlowForeverandEver



Series: Hymns of Struggle [11]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I'll add more characters as they appear - Freeform, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Coarse language, Mystery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sammy survived Bendy, a modern oc tries to have empathy for others around her, all mentioned relationships are nonromantic, and they aren't entirely sure what to do or how to give it back, there's also a huge focus on finding meaning in the inevitable suffering of the studio, this fic is mostly or only based on chapter 1-3 content and is an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15904533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipesFlowForeverandEver/pseuds/PipesFlowForeverandEver
Summary: What's there to live for after you die? You struggle to exist- to make it all the way to your Lord- and all that greets you is Hell wrapped through your own flesh. Purgatory must be real after all. I pray and I pray and finally, something comes. Is it worth it to know? -An empathetic attempt to comprehend and console Sammy Lawrence and other residents of the studio.





	1. Opposition

**Author's Note:**

> I also have this fic posted on fanfiction.net. If you're worried about the authenticity of this posting, feel free to contact my fanfiction.net account of the same name and I'll verify for you that this work is not stolen.
> 
> This fanfic references violence and its aftermath as well as depictions of hallucinations and re-experiencing trauma. I do want to assure, however, that this fic attempts to realistically bring together two beings with deep emotional troubles in a way that does not romanticize abuse, but still acknowledges wrongdoings and the trauma of others' actions.
> 
> This fic is an AU titled "Hymns of Struggle" that is based mostly or only on information based in Chapter 1-3 canon, my own idea of how the story possibly could have turned out as seen through the eyes of my OC.
> 
> This seventh arc will likely deal with the "dancing" the characters are doing, the mental and emotional gymnastics of hiding things from one another and carefully, cautiously deciding what to do and what so say in new, split aspects of their lives as change comes and brings them closer than maybe intended.
> 
> I mostly write this for both your enjoyment and mine, but comments still brighten my day if you have any thoughts.
> 
> Shoutout to AceOfIntuition for coming up with the arc name! It fits perfectly!
> 
>  **NOTE:** I'm just gonna keep an updated list at the end of this work and all the others of all the spectacular fanart you wonderful people keep making me that I'll never stop screaming about. I'll still be posting links in the notes of chapters as new art is made, but it makes sense to keep a big list somewhere!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart.”_ – Hebrews 4:12

Sometimes in life there comes a time where things split- where this is a special emphasis on the way in which things separate, unite, melt together, and drift away. There’s no particular order to it- no particular fashion to expect- and so recognizing certain elements that encompass our existence becomes…fearful.

Give us a sense of danger, even.

And danger can be both painfully frightening and oh, so invigorating. Oftentimes both. Peril is stress, but peril is also the way in which we prove ourselves capable and how we find steadier ground- and so like the eye of the storm, there can be peace amid chaos, feelings among feelings both fighting and coexisting in a contradiction that only human hearts have managed to endure.

This is certainly how the two pairs of men and women felt after speaking to one another. There was a set that used to be friends- one of whom that had remembered the whole time this bitterness of what she lost and the unbearable sight of watching her counterpart melt into someone she could recognize and yet could not. And the other of these two finally could wonder no longer tailor a theory to suit his needs why Alice hated him- and the horror that she despised not only who he became but who he used to be, who he spent his many years trying to be again. Absolutely stabbing was the sting of being told right from the mouth he claimed evil that maybe it wasn’t she that was so but he.

And to a man that already loathed himself, such a wound was irreversible, no matter how much he would try to deny it. And to connect the screams of the woman in his mind- the one he desperately reached for in what he assumed to be his last moments of mortality- to the angel before him now? How horribly intimate in the worst possible way. What was he left to do with the pieces broken yet again in the palms of his aching hands? What was he meant to believe when constructs made to comfort were shattered before his very eyes?

What was he doing to tell the one he had pulled headfirst into his faith, and what would their god see in him now?

But there was another set too- a couple as old and young as time frightened to see not that they used to be friends but that they _could_ be friends. The man that regretted it all was helpless to watch her come closer and closer until all he could do was approach her back. He wanted to- oh how badly did he want to- but he knew that the girl couldn’t be near unless there was the greatest of concentration, the most aware of attentiveness. It was the sharpest sort of tenderness, the most dutiful of devotions.

And she shouldn’t have wanted to see him, she thought, and yet here she was, over and over, not disgusted by his presence but…softened by it. There was something about him, almost like a mirror of what she could be- of what she might become if she remained in the studio’s vile cloud of misery for much longer. Lonely. Isolated. Despondent and unimaginably, eternally suffering.

Joey in his ink stained clothes and with his tired, bright eyes was proof that a body of flesh wouldn’t save her from a destiny such as his. The curse took and took away, and she was beginning to see what everyone else did- that she had the most to take. This- this was the very reason she wanted to fight to know the place that took her, its history, its truths, and its demons. But she couldn’t deny the draw of his fatherly touch, his whispers not to worry, the fear he tried to hold still but still managed to shake his eyes. He had seen everything she had not, and it was so _very_ much.

This is how every emotion swirled, some mixing, and some flowing one over the other like water and oil. But they all still exist in the same place- in this same universe of shunned empathy and buried memories wished to be forgotten or found. A waltz of opposing beliefs, a parallel of different wisdoms finding they could intertwine their fingers and try to make some sense out of nonsense.

Terrifying.

But it was all worth it.

It had to be, if this is what their hearts really wanted, if this is where faith let them fall.

But heaven knows what that would mean for everyone else.


	2. Sammy's Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”_ – 1 Corinthians 13:2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a few things here. First off, I actually...have so much fanart that I can't fit the links in the end notes anymore! GOOD GRAVY! So instead, I took a few minutes to organize the art so that each is tagged by arc so people can look spoiler free! I'll have the links to the tags at the end notes instead from now on. Second...
> 
> HEY SO I GOT A WHOLE BUNCH OF NEAT STUFF!!!! 
> 
> Silver made art for both Cares AND for the drabble What's Not Yours! Silver you're the best and I love you.
> 
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/177787124323/slipnslideblog-and-hollyhocks-taller-than-he  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/177787012498/slipnslideblog-cares-of-communication-is-great
> 
> And my friend Ace has been drawing my Joey and their Joey with longer than canon hair lately, and they picked to draw my Joey's first line at the end of Flickers! It's amazing and I am DYING
> 
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/177847963868/aceofintuition-for-the-anon-who-asked

“Prophet” is not a title without a past. He stumbled into faith and there he would remain, both a blessing and a curse to a man with nothing left but a trapped soul and a heart that begged for what he once had.

To be a prophet was to be the consolation he needed most in a position no human being was ever designed to endure- to be forced to live through an extended death and feel the suspension of blood in its veins and breath merely drift out of lungs as if the body was held still but the world moved on without him.

That’s how it felt for Sammy to die.

He heard Susie scream. As the very same person’s recollection swarmed his ears today and forced him to listen, he could finally see it in all its horrific clarity; like frozen pictures and slowing film, he could almost reach out and touch what he remembered. Before him was a young lady with pale skin, dark lips, and wide, wide eyes. He could see the glitter of ink reflect in them as the summoned rush of shadows rose as a tidal wave from behind him, gushing past his waist and flying in droplets onto her skin and clothes in the brief half-second before it ate them alive. Then his dark skin became darker, and everything became nothing.

From the innocent visage of the imaginary come to life burst forth its personification of immortality through animation and ink. From the posters and cutouts and sketches of Bendy gushed the black flood that would choke out everything but the very core of each employee or visitor’s being. From the face of what he would accept as his lord came that which would claim him forevermore.

And it rose to the ceiling until he couldn’t hear, see, or feel anything but the cold of void and endless eternity seep through his skin like water through paper towel. It covered his shape until it became his shape, a snap at the edges of his body as the ink converged into itself and cocooned him until liquification. And from the form of a man this black began to lax, smooth, and then melt away into the rest that had done the same as he.

From the many bodies of men came the massive puddles of souls- the place, person, and thing he would know far too intimately for far too long.

Felt? Did he feel? He did but he…didn’t. To be numb would in itself be a sensation, and that’s not what this seemed to be.

Somehow he felt pure nothingness, and it drifted in and out of him like he was a spec of sand in the riptides of an ocean.

He did not comprehend yet that it was not that he was surrounded by ink but that he had merely become it.

And so had everyone else. He could feel them- he could hear them. Voices, voices, voices. Everywhere. How close? Close. How far? Far. Endless like the universe was gone and filled to the brim with only the sounds of what it used to have. It was all within reach- all touching him, smothering him- and yet he couldn’t touch it at all.

A gaping breath and a splash. He felt a hard surface underneath a slam of his palm- wood- and suddenly all the weight and weightlessness left him from the torso up. He didn’t realize what he was doing, but he did all the same; Sammy dragged himself out of the puddles. He couldn’t feel his legs.

For the longest time, he saw nothing. He sensed something different- not the same sensation that wrapped around and through him- but it was almost somehow worse. _Splash, splash, splash._ It fell in the rhythm that was only intended for his walking feet, but it was that of his arms, hands, and elbows.

And then he began to see- blurs, like looking through the porthole of a ship through misty glass in the early morning. It was so damn dark. Where was he? Where was he? Where was he?

And as he began to focus on the present, he didn’t notice the memories of his past slipping away.

Somehow, he began to stand. A surface came to his right side and he slammed into it, exhausted and his new body ready to give up so soon after it was born. Eyelids no longer needed closed, and a mouth carved from tangible emptiness heaved a breath that shouldn’t have existed.

Spinning. Nothing stayed still. Sammy heard himself groan and clutch desperately at the thin lines between the boards at his side, trying to keep balance. Was it his new legs giving way or the room itself that was moving? He’d never know.

Posters- already forgetting that they were simply advertisements for the cartoon he composed for. He may have never known if what came next was hallucination, reality, or right in between: prophecy.

The pictures of dancing demons- the very ones that leaked the sea that swallowed him before- crawled out of their papers and drifted to the floor, smoky like fog with no firm body, staining a trail from the wall to the floor and towards where he stood like ink droplets guided through a brush’s cleansing water.

Just as the faceless faces reached for him, black washed over his sight and they were gone.

He’d only know what it was like to see the hand in front of him, shiny sludge that twitched just as he did. Even with his failing sight, a few seconds of ponderance left the impossible true.

Sammy screamed.

And something heard him.

**Drip.**

Liquid had swished in his ears for a second of forever in his time amid the puddles- a substance beyond mortal comprehension and existence. But somehow this- this was different.

**Drip.**

His vision blurred even more, like grey raindrops on a car’s windshield.

He didn’t like it.

**Drip.**

**Drip.**

**Drip.**

He threw himself off the edge of his vertical bed, and he tried to ignore the sound of each yelp, each cry escaping his throat as attempts to run became stumbling, and then as stumbling became falling.

But he was caught. And that was the first time the prophet met his god.

Through the dark edges of his vision, a smile- a horrid, wide smile. Stretched beyond human capability. The same blood as that which formed his body dripped onto his face- into his mouth until he sputtered coughs, and into his eyes until an already dim image became merely a sketch in the middle of the night.

And once again, nothing.

Sammy would later call this his baptism.

He crawled- his legs were upright and here to stay now. He couldn’t feel his nakedness, but this was still the most vulnerable a man could ever be-…never be.

Because maybe “man” was no longer the right word.

From this moment on, he was helpless but to wander the halls of the place he used to traverse with such confidence, such bravado, such _knowing-_ when truthfully even before the ink he had known nothing at all. He was guided only by senseless instinct and the sound of his own voice echoing down to hell.

Every so often he’d see his own flesh through the blinds of ink that took his sight, and he’d scream again.

And **he’d** come again.

_Again._

_Again._

_Again._

The same as before, holding the soul’s comparatively tiny frame, making him feel the sweat, spit, or blood of this gargantuan thing pour itself onto him- and somehow, everywhere around him too…like the whole room was to be washed with this very essence until it was all the same as **he.**

And it would keep happening, every time he screamed.

And each time, he’d be rendered totally blind, senseless a little longer than he was the last.

_“What am I missing, my lord?”_

The turning point, and the mark of the last time he would be cleansed. The demon must have seen his search for understanding, and this surely must have been what **he** had waited for.

The **drips** stopped, and Sammy felt himself being dragged somewhere new. He was left there- no longer feeling his newfound god’s grasp but still sensing **he** was either there either physically or in spirit. It didn’t matter.

He dropped to his hands and knees with a crash onto a pile of sturdy objects, something underneath him breaking. He could barely identify it as his sight kept going and going away and away, but…-

What he had shattered was the visage of Bendy, smiling upon him through his darkness.

His hands slowly were drawn to one piece in particular, almost like being pulled by a string by something invisible. Eyes stared back at him- eyes that he lacked.

Eyes to take for his own.

And then he could never see without his mask again, all the brown and white and yellow fleeing his eyes the moment his lord’s face was removed- but he would never need otherwise, he promised himself. He would only need the guiding light of his master- just as he had been brought to the faith budding in his chest, he would trust.

There was nothing else to trust, especially not himself.

From that moment on there was no Sammy Lawrence. There was only the prophet and his hymns of demonic deliverance.

And that is who he remained up till he saw a man of flesh and blood stumble into his hall of song. Up until he hit him upon the back of the head and saw the smallest bit of red stain the floor where his unconscious body slumped down. Up until he carried the sacrificial lamb to his final resting place, so anxious that he couldn’t even knot the ropes he knew for sure he could tie. Up until he kneeled in front of this man and with so, so much fear gently stroked his face, observing the age that had taken him, knowing that there would be no age left waiting for him in just a few moments.

And believing in his heart that this was surely good. It must be good, even if in order to give life the demon must also take it away.

The lamb’s shirt was stained with blood and ink, but it still remained a powder blue. The prophet would never forget that.

Not even feeling his chest rip open and tear in two would take that memory away.

And as his lord’s punishment for a misdeed he’d ponder until a woman of the same reds and blues would make him question it all over again, he was sent back to the puddles.

He would preach and preach, using every ounce of strength in his bodiless spirit to make use of the horribly intimate nature of this purgatory, begging everyone to realize what he did- that he couldn’t do this alone. He couldn’t save them if they didn’t want to be saved.

Maybe death was meant to be the punishment, but there could be nothing worse than being alone with a salvation that could save no one no matter how much he believed. He heard murmurs thereafter in the puddles of that man and what he had done- and evidence that once again, nothing was the same but not in the way he had hoped. He had fought and prayed so hard for so long only to return to the swirling fishbowl of lost souls, alone in a crowd that would never listen to anything besides this moment’s misery, this second’s struggle.

And that’s why she was so important. She saved him from being alone. Sammy didn’t know if she could save him from all that he knew now, but there was nothing left to do but try.

…As had been his way from faith’s beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this chapter is the song Blue Lips by Regina Spektor:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccZuKOTb6ug


	3. Painted Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“And have mercy on those who doubt…”_ – Jude 1:22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So I've been back at school for a few weeks now and I wanted to give a heads up I DO plan on continuing to write this- hopefully all the way to a conclusion far into the future! But don't worry if chapters are a bit short or not as often as before; I'm gonna be working a lot on the weekends at least for the next few weeks here. Thank you all for sticking with me and I hope you like where it leads!

To already believe you’re disgusting and then be described by someone who utterly loathes you is an experience so upsetting that it has no concise words. It’s an affirmation of the worst things about you, a promise that however you go forward may not be any better than where you’ve been. So of course, Sammy was tired. Of course, he was exhausted.

And of course, after all these years of hoping only to find that his true identity was not a blank canvas but one already painted in hues he felt sickened to see…he didn’t know what to do.

He just knew he had to get back to her, even if he didn’t have an answer anymore for who he hoped to be at the end of all this. _“It will still be better,”_ he pledged to himself, _“There is nothing else left but better.”_

But for his past to be painted by Alice’s brush, regardless of knowing that her bias and hatred could be clouding the true image, was still a horrid sight to behold. Maybe that’s why even if he understood the demon less and less, he would still trust. He would trust that to have his sight taken and given back was somehow good, and to be alone until Francine was thrown into his arms was even better…even if he was reminded moment after moment of what he no longer had.

And now? Also of what she always had that he never did- integrity. If even an inkling of Alice’s account of Susie’s life in the studio was true, then he did not retain the cornerstone of his faith and life’s meaning.

The age-old prophet under a new light took his time to mull over fresh reality but did eventually return to his own department, reading his name all over the walls as if it was something of pride profession. But he wasn’t proud of it.

For once, Francine was actually there waiting for him in his sanctuary when he came back- something that had never happened before. Surely this was a sign that the world was upside down, he thought sarcastically at first, but…-

…He was grateful. At least one thing had remained- she did come back. And with this, Francine was surprised not only to see him- having expected him to stay here in wait with nail-biting anxiety until she was satisfied with a taste of independence- but also surprised to see him exhale with a groan and-

And drop her own bag to his feet.

Her eyes popped wide.

He knew.

_Shit, he knew._

He knew she saw Alice. She tried to relay the entire series of events in her mind; did she take the bag with her to Joey’s- what would she call it?...-office?

For some reason it felt necessary to confirm mentally that she did not recall doing so, despite literal, tangible evidence fallen right from his fingers to prove that she had not. As Sammy stared at her blankly, unreadable with the face that gave him sight, now it was pulling all together. Her feet flew to stand up and arise her from the stool, mouth slightly agape with dread. _That’s_ why Sammy wasn’t back when she came; he must have gotten worried about how long she was gone and followed a gut fear that she had gone where she was forbidden- Heavenly Toys.

And that he found signs of her but not she herself.

God, what if he thought Alice had her? What if he chased Alice down, demanded she give Francine back? What if they fought?! _God almighty-_

And then something even worse that made sweat fall from her brow.

_What if he knew about Joey?_

Her stomach lurched as Sammy finally, finally sauntered his way over, one heavy step at a time.

“Sammy-! Sammy, I can explain-!”

And just as he had stepped so close, his flat, painted eyes gradually tilting down to glare at her until they were almost perpendicular to the floor…-

One hand on her shoulder.

Then other on the back of her head.

And then she was pulled in a flush to his inky chest.

It left her breathless, an already gaping mouth releasing an involuntary grunt with her gasp. Her scalp tingled as icy fingers curled into her hair. Her cheek numbed with the cold of his torso as she was pressed in closer and closer. And the touch on her shoulder gripped tight, as if he was afraid she’d fly away with an unfelt wind.

He was… _holding_ her.

“Thank you, my...friend,” he whispered, voice lacking power because of all the words someone else spoke. “Thank you for staying,” even though it was rather that she had left and come back.

She’d never have any idea how much and in how many ways he meant that, Francine being the only one in the world besides the ink demon himself to prove loyal to the prophet despite all his inherent sin.

He’d never have any idea how Francine knew now how to compare his freezing touch to the warm one of another man who cared for her safety too, and how the recency of both upon her skin made her feel sick as their feelings mixed inside her heart but could not seem to combine in peace.

And they both saw this world and themselves so, so differently now even if nothing had changed at all besides the exchange of a few words with someone else who knew better.


	4. I Remember You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I will remember my song in the night; I will meditate with my heart, and my spirit ponders…”_ – Psalm 77:4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COUPLE OF THINGS HERE! First off, my friend Ace!!! Made!!! Hymns art!!!! AAAAAAAAA!!!!! ITS SO GOOD!!!!!
> 
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/178163855953/aceofintuition-one-of-the-last-faded-spots-of
> 
>  
> 
> Second, it never occured to me to share here the post I made that I like people to read before gifting me art. So far all of the fanart I get is posted on tumblr and some of it references some noncanon content for my story, but I should put it here too for anyone to read just to be considerate:
> 
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/176339938068/so-with-aces-permission-im-going-to-sort-of-add
> 
>  
> 
> Third, **I heavily recommend you read my drabble Another Tuesday Afternoon before reading this chapter** as it gives better context. (And for anyone who reads this main series, all of the drabbles I include as a work in the entire series are canon unless stated otherwise and as things develop, I'll likely reference them more and more so I recommend reading the drabbles in general). Here's a link to Another Tuesday Afternoon:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14222637

_“Ugh!”_

A splat against the ground echoed from underneath Alice’s heel as it slammed down onto the searcher. Nose wrinkling in disgust, she was reminded that _this_ was why she hardly ever left her cloud nine. The sight of these pathetic, writhing… _wormlike_ things pulling themselves out of the ooze was enough to make her skin crawl- let alone when puddles formed new mass and became _arms_ reaching out for her. But no, it wasn’t an angel’s gentle mercy they craved- it was surely her perfection; for some reason they craved to attack once in a while even someone as she made of ink- maybe because she reminded them of what they _really_ wanted: her shreds of humanity.

And that she simply could not give away. Not again.

A throaty hiss emerged from underneath her feet once again but was promptly silenced, a head newly formed with a gaping, dripping mouth collapsing back into the puddles hardly two seconds after being born to suffer once more. She skirted the sole of her shoe across the black smear on the floor after this second stomp- both for good measure and to satisfy something inside her that desired violence for even _approaching_ her so recklessly.

“Horrible thing!”

She tried not to empathize with the searchers, tried not to remember they were once people…tried not to consider that maybe in some way, they still were.

But that was precisely the kind of being she had left her haven to find.

It wasn’t any sort of dual personality that made Alice so split on her feelings and behaviors. No, that would be too easy of an excuse, and to find refuge in such an idea would be a disservice to her complexity, her history, and her pain. A stomach that didn’t need to exist still churned now to remind Alice that even if dark magic was the medium, no one in this studio had needed much more than a push to twist inside out into caricatures of the things that scared them most. Not her, not Sammy, not-…

…Norman.

And before she knew it, she was in the elevator to descend yet again- not alongside someone she hated mere hours before but to find someone she had tried to forget.

But never could.

That made the angel curse herself. Do you know how much work it is to detach yourself from the place- the people you once thrived among? To dismiss it all because there’s no possibility to reach anything even akin to peace in this hell otherwise?

 _“A lifetime,”_ her sweeter voice lamented to the other, _“It took a lifetime.”_

And then, a reply:

“And it only took a visit from just a girl to feel it fleeing from my fingertips.”

Her figure became silhouetted as she crossed into a realm she knew well but avoided, eyes narrowing down at the abyss of ink as one hand rose and curled its fingers onto the banister. It hollowed her- just for a moment- but a small, frustrated groan rumbled her throat as she came to realize she was delaying the inevitable. A quick turn and broken lips stretching side to side in an open frown, she descended from her royal tower down, down, down to the one who may have been the lowest of creatures in her rotten kingdom.

A frown became a scowl as that tape came into her life once again, right at the entrance of the maze. She hated it- she remembered the first time she found it. Norman’s voice once again, here to comfort her as her body melted over and over beneath her own self when she first emerged from the puddles. To a black and white slug, it was like a voice from above- and surely, if Norman was still alive, he’d be her saving grace like he had been every time before. As Alice firstborn dragged herself into the maze, the image was so clear to her desperate mind: his gentle smile, pushing wrinkles deeper into his face; half-lidded eyes of a beautiful dark brown, gazing at her with a glimmer of understanding and sympathy she wasn’t even sure she had for herself; and she could feel his hand touching hers, skin calloused with age delicate with hers as an elderly gentleman helped her out of her seat after a lunch break together that went by far too fast.

All of that was gone forever the moment she knew he was too.

There was the shadow of a human-like figure coming looming from one of the clearings of this maze; over the sound of her heaving, wet breath she could hear the clicking of projectors. The lights blinded her eyes- made her panic and flail in her already horrified, agonizing state of body and mind- but she kept moving. Norman? _Norman?!_ Someone was there. But as she grew closer, Susie began to understand that this shadow was only human _-like_ for a reason.

Something in the shape of a person was threaded like a string through quilt- wires that sparked and spat through cuts and tears, their brief lights flying across this corpse to reveal a rubbery texture or maybe one like that of wettened leather. The thick lines and coils loosely cocooned him, minimal enough to make this thing inside visible but strong enough to let him dangle in the air like a hanged man left to decay as a symbol of worse to come for those who sinned. The mess of wiring converged towards the top to secure the black web’s prize to the wall and ceiling, leaving unperceivable from neck-up what remained of this former mortal being.

A spiderweb of tubing and electricity crawled around someone who was no longer mister Norman Polk, a gloved hand dangling just a few inches beyond the perimeter of his net of a coffin.

And even in all her dawning fear, anguish, and misery, Susie had to reach up to hold it once again.

That’s when the mechanical man sputtered to life once more.

Something radiated in shuddering rays of light from where his head should have been in this tangle, and then- then she saw the wires shift as something beneath them tried to move but couldn’t. In response, a groan- and that’s when an already dropping feeling in her dribbling chest began to plummet. It was a sound she had never heard before, the screech of an animal unmet by any human ears, and it was muffled, yes, but…

It was muffled by the speaker at his chest, not by anything above it.

Susie yelped and retracted her grasp but her new fingers were much too slow. This thing’s grip was fast, instinctive, and _tight._ And it held on to her for dear life as the body attached began to spur and jerk about more and more violently, desperately by the second as limbs tried to move about but were restrained.

But he was unrestrainable now, and each time one of these wires tore into two and made him closer and closer to liberty, she screamed and pulled away.

Susie would never know if she pulled to free him or to free herself from him.

In one final, absolutely haunting crescendo of ferocity and noise, the inorganic womb finished tearing apart to release him to new life and into the arms of someone that didn’t mother him before but rather felt his like he was a father. Some of the wires still clung to his body after its descent to the studio floor and would remain forevermore.

The being splattered into the ink beneath them, murmuring grunt-like scratches into the liquid until it rippled. And the worse part that she being nearly liquid herself, it rippled through her too.

She felt him.

And eventually Susie would learn that he felt her this way too.

But that would be another day, another time she’d come to visit him in disbelief, morbid curiosity, and grief, because today?

Today was the day she breathlessly searched for a familiar face in this whole twisted hell, crawling back against the wall until her barely formed arms and neck touched the wood behind to fully gaze upon who had entered this life alongside she.

And today was the day she would realize she would never find one such face, the illumination of reality falling upon her both literally and spiritually with a raise of the projector.

From then forward, Susie knew that Norman was gone, and she began to see that she was something else too. Nothing would- could- ever be the same, and new names accompanied new existences.

But all these years later, Alice could more than manage to identify herself but still didn’t know if the creature in front of her was merely the projectionist or truly Norman Polk.

As the angel approached someone with no resemblance to the man she once cared for, that made her frown in a different sort of way. Regret, sadness… _unsureness._ That last feeling, especially, was the one she hated most, and it was the reason she visited him so little. It made her unsure.

It made her unsure if he was something entirely new of if everything she had called her friend was in there too.

That terrifying, appalling excuse of a head finally turned to “face” her as she stopped two meters away from his cozy corner, sitting cross-legged among the puddles with an inky heart seized in his hand. Alice had observed the way he squeezed it, put pressure on its sides…like a _toy._

Brief assurance. Norman would never be so callous as to do that.

_But yet again, Susie wouldn’t have ripped hearts out either._

It made her grimace, an expression noticed by the projectionist with a croak and a head tilt almost like a confused dog. When she simply dug her fingers into her crossed forearms more, a louder sound emerged from his chest, and he suddenly threw himself back into the murk-stained walls.

He was scared. Alice tried not to see that how he looked before her now must have been how she did to him at that first appearance so many years ago, but that couldn’t be helped. And so with nothing else to do, she released a sigh and allowed her expression to droop into neutrality.

She felt anything but neutral, of course, but Francine wasn’t the person to teach her that middle ground was the only way to reconcile two extremes; no, that was none other than the person at her feet.

Norman, still shaken with the events of when the mortal woman visited him last, required a moment for adrenaline to settle and for a stance ready to run or fight to loosen into something more relaxed. That light of his flickered into something dimmer, almost as if it softened for his guest, and one slow step after another he came closer.

Norman was the only person of ink Alice ever let touch her, but it was still a begrudging acceptance. Despite learning that it didn’t taint her physically, Alice was always afraid herself if she was letting a monster roam her face or if such interaction was all a voiceless, nearly mindless old friend had left to give to the young lady he wished the best for. She bit the inside of her lip to keep it from stretching in disgust or dismay as one hand held her shoulder and the other clasped much too rough for her liking at the already disfigured side of her face.

 _“Norman,”_ she finally spoke, feeling her torn jaw brush against his palm.

Yet another flicker, yet another bit of static from his chest- either meaningless response to stimuli or a response meant to politely ask for her to continue. She held back an eye roll; Alice never truly thought of a reason to come- at least one to attempt to explain to someone who might not even understand.

No, she comprehended as she gently mirrored his touches to his own “chin” and the “skin” of his shoulder next to that reel breaking through black, moist flesh; no, she knew Norman couldn’t give any words of comfort now like he had when Sammy had bothered her before.

But she could still lament in his presence like she never had opportunity to- before the flood of ink- of feeling the betrayal of her best friend deeming her unworthy to be the angel she knew she rightfully earned the name to.

Regardless of whether or not Sammy owned up to sins he couldn’t remember, she didn’t think she could forgive. It was the last thing of importance to occur before she died, and so like a ghost, Alice was forced to live on forever until her unfinished business was laid to rest like her cadaver.

But these things? They could never be given back. And that would haunt her forever, both being and never truly being neither the Alice to be revered and respected nor the Susie with dreams and a future ahead and within reach, the worst of limbos. Maybe in a literal sense Sammy only took her job away, but with all between them- all their trust and all their comradery amid Joey’s chaos- it had meant so much more.

Still did, hand in hand with the prophet he became.

With only a remnant of Norman being enough for this time and this time only, the woman who deserved better melted into him and heard her own quiet mumbles echo through the labyrinth of light, wood, and ink as she spoke into his chest. A man unidentified to be himself or someone else held the girl who was much the same way, unknown if this sensation of her pressed against him was an ancient comfort or a newfound amazement depending on where his mind lingered now. He could feel her sing to him in between pauses of silence where she choked back the threat to cry- something never to be heard by even the walls themselves- much like how this projectionist once relished hearing her fill the studio with song long, long ago.


	5. Filling the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Addressing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody to the Lord with your heart,”_ \- Ephesians 5:19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been planning this chapter since, say January or February, so I hope you like it!!!! I'm very excited to finally share it with you guys <3

The news about the saferoom was unsettling to say the least. So much drama, so much heartache for it all to be dashed away as fast as it had come. Sammy _swore_ a number of things that should have made this impossible: one, that it must have been his fault it was locked. There was no way to bolster the door without someone on the inside to do it, but somehow he had done it- had to in order for him to leave it with no one within waiting for him. Two, when they did arrive to find their haven inaccessible, he pulled like hell; he tugged and he tugged both to offer his friend safety once more and to wipe off that growing look of sadness as it dawned upon her that all of her precious personal items might be gone forever.

Knowing Francine had to find her solace somewhere else, when she had asked to lose herself for a time within the studio, he allowed it. She came back saying the saferoom maybe was never locked at all. Or worse- he dared to fear but not dwell upon- that someone unlocked it.

But that was only the glaze on Sammy’s stack of troubles. This world- _his_ world- was proving much more unstable than he had realized, and his manner of discovering it was feeling how the foundation of his faith shook and shook which each thing peaking through the darkness of stolen memory.

A summary of his current perspective of himself currently that he was hardly a man kept alive by a force he couldn’t comprehend; someday, he presumed to be the ink demon’s choosing, he would be set free. And that, for a long time, was the extent of it! He didn’t ask- didn’t w _ant_ to ask- what he was before all this and who he would be in a more glorious future.

But then Alice answered one of those two mysteries, and it left so very unsure if the latter would bear any resemblance to it- and if he would want it to.

And so with nothing else to do, Sammy turned to what comforted him, what cradled his weary soul without fail.

Francine observed with intent as her lost prophet sang his hymns.

A gentle, unique voice swept the saferoom with airy fervor, Sammy’s upper back lounged against the wall as fingers plucked his favorite instrument’s strings. The banjo sang back, vibrations clear as day both visually and audibly as oily tips brushed with practiced perfection. Even in all her own personal weariness, that made Francine smile; she had never known the banjo to be such a wonderful sound before she met the music director, but Sammy now had her convinced of its beauty for the rest of her life.

_The rest of her life._

The woman frowned as she rested her closed hands on the table in front of her at that phrase’s appearance in her inner dialogue. Sammy wasn’t the only person unsure about the future. Ever since she first visited the band room, she had felt convinced that someday, it’d all be okay; she’d survive and she’d go home. She learned since, of course, that what was in between surviving and going home was important, but now that last part didn’t seem so simple.

As Sammy titled his head back, that cartoonish mask of his leaving unsure if it was a firm stare to something out there or merely a mindless look to the above he hoped to see someday, Francine yet again found Joey’s whispers in her heart. The only spot of color besides herself begged the young woman to not think about it anymore- to not bother rescuing the memory of those lives lost to the ink- and simply wait for the end to come. It was such a hopelessness in his sad eyes as he asked her this, and yet it was a hope he had for them nonetheless. And so staring ahead at the tar-like man she wanted to uncover since she first opened her eyes to the inky shroud of their curse, she felt so very uncertain what to do.

And ignorant to the parallel pains of Sammy’s mind, she had to test it.

“Hey Sammy.”

A flowing stop to his voice, a hum in his throat faded so that even its interruption sounded pleasant to the ear. That second face of his turned down more her way, scratched eyes still managing to look upon Francine in wait as he continued to strum the cords in his fingers.

What they saw was his friend leaning over the wooden table, tucking her chin into folded arms, her eyes half-lidded with something more tender than mere tiredness.

“When we get out of here…what do you think you’re gonna do?”

It wasn’t meant to be so poignant, but hell- it _was._ His fingers stopped playing too, an abrupt and unharmonious stop as being taken aback left him no longer aware of music entirely. He choked back something harsh; she didn’t know. Francine had no awareness of his recent discomforts that left him unknowing if the future could be as disheartening as his newfound past, and so words with sting were pulled back for someone else another day. Before him was simply a soul that was still coping with the realities of the ink, and for her sake, he’d play along.

“I suppose I need you to be more specific than that,” he replied hesitantly, unsure if specification would somehow make him more uncomfortable.

“I mean- like-” She hadn’t thought this out. Francine pursed her lips as let her eyes dart across the marks of the table in search of answers. Her gaze fell upon that paper again- Henry and Boris, names written here before she had ever even first set foot in this sanctuary- and she had to pry it away. But it was just long enough of a gaze upon one representative of the studio’s vast collection of mysteries for her to wonder once more what happened to everyone here, and so maybe that was what guided her next question.

“What are you gonna tell people about what happened?”

There were no words for how sick that made Sammy feel; no other question could be more precise to dig into his current insecurities and fears. At first he replied only with silence, and as it continued, Francine began to see that this wasn’t a pause of ponderance but rather a paralysis of some sort taking his body and voice, and the moment she realized this, guilt started to ache straight into her bones.

“I’m- I’m sorry…” was the best she could give. Damn it, Joey had a point. This whole time she had to fight tooth and nail to get any sort of information about Sammy- and she had to struggle against _him._ Surely, at least some of what they found together was worth his knowing, but…

“…It’s fine.” As Sammy finally exhaled a lie, putting a hand dripping with stress to his head and let the banjo droop down to the floor with a limp grasp, Francine had maybe her first moment of clarity that he really _didn’t_ want to know for more of a reason than just being afraid to look for it.

But now she was left sitting here, watching him melt once more with a question she knew he wouldn’t end up answering for her today.

Suddenly, a compromise to satisfy her misgivings came to be.

“…Do you want to know what I want to do when we get out?”

Through Sammy’s misery, these words pierced the veil clouding his mind. The black obscuring the corners of his sight retreated, and a mouth slightly agape faced the woman who spoke so very softly. And she had a look to match- her gentle gaze remained, mouth slightly open herself as a glitter of some sort came to her eyes. She was realizing something much in the same way as when she reminded him of his favorite song some time ago.

And indeed, that was a telltale sign that something just as magical was ahead.

“…I want to have you listen to every song you’ve never heard.”

Even as he didn’t know exactly what to think of it, the very notion took his breath away. It made butterflies flutter between his ribs, both strange and uncomfortable as well as undeniably _good._ With the hollowing pain of her last inquiry still echoing in his chest, it was such a bizarre sensation that he couldn’t sparse it into something that made sense.

So what he asked next was unidentified to be a reply or a distraction to this feeling she set aflame right from the shine in her eyes into the wind in his lungs.

“You know…” Sammy countered with an unexpected smoothness that was either sly with charm or tender with vulnerability, “I don’t think you ever told me what _your_ favorite song was.”

And as her eyes widened with the unanticipated, he suddenly felt a smile carve into his face. A slight terror jumped through him as well, but…even if he wasn’t so sure about himself and his own future, at least hers was ahead for him to see and take joy in reclaiming; for this moment, he’d make that enough, and he’d let go fears that maybe they won’t be released to her old life at all.

The grin curled even deeper with a whimsy only she seemed able to bring to his face. “Tell me about the song you love the most. I would love to look forward to hearing it myself someday.”

As surprise took her expression, Sammy gradually saw it grow into a mischievousness herself, and just then- he realized he forgot something.

“You don’t have to wait for that,” Francine replied with the most excited sort of quiet trembling her voice.

That oh so familiar phone pulled out of her pocket and after a few touches of instruction unintelligible to her fellow disciple, she left the device on the table and began to walk towards him.

Just as she took him by the hands- a gasp escaping his lips- music began to play.

One pluck of a string not far unlike his own, left just long enough to ring the air before more and more came behind. With a big grin fighting against the shyness in her eyes, Francine pulled him from the wall in tandem with the rhythm that began to sway like dancing water.

Just as her fingers intertwined with his, he heard something underneath the sweet sound of strings; a hum- almost like an animal, but…not. It was like magic itself echoing just barely through the walls.

And then as the song took flight, so did she- and she pulled him right along with her, slowly circling the living room in a dance. She’d sway him in and out, closer and farther like a pulse drummed through them.

Indeed, the music itself seemed to be alive.

To hear it was like listening to a single lifetime or maybe even more captured within one song- creation, love, war, death, sorrow, and finally- undeniably-…peace.

There was a beast among it all- a beautiful, entrancing wail of something lost, suffering, and playful all at the same time. Even if it wasn’t always heard, it was still there; its sharp yet hushed cry would drift away into the background until it was unknown if it was still there or gone entirely. It didn’t matter- this was the tune of its void, filling emptiness with sound like God forged all that breathed life.

And eventually it was clear to be a god that also could take it away.

As she spun him slowly but somehow so firmly around, it was almost like he could see it swirl around him; deep, starry blues for the quiet and striking fires like explosions for when sounds of peril snuck their way in- like cannons in a midnight sky. It was a lyricless song that somehow said more than mere words ever could, orchestrated by the spirit of an incomprehensible enchantment that enveloped them all the same.

Eventually it became clear to Sammy that this wasn’t a song meant to simply accompany a story; it _was_ a story in itself.

…It could even be his story.

Beginning and ending much the same way, sounding the same with different meanings after experiencing the thunderous heights in between. It was a song about faith, danger, and resolution; it was everything he saw himself to be, for better or worse.

Simple, purely, _being._

This bizarre tune would haunt him for much longer than the six minutes it played, so enraptured bar after bar, note after note that it went by in only a few blinks of her eyes- a few satisfied, dreamy murmurs of her voice sighing and humming with the unspoken tale. The beat of this divine hymn would follow him forevermore, much like others always had through his god Bendy.

And just as the song began, it ended the same way, signaling the cycle of existence ready to end and start over, with Francine hesitantly but surely letting him into a bit of her world this time instead of her into his- the sound of harps not too far from the thump in his chest as their dance slowed into almost nothing, much like the quieting chant that surrounded them less and less.

Their inner thoughts were private, but as Francine shared her favorite song- feeling his hands in hers- there was a combined assurance made to describe all that was: the possibility that the creature who took away and the man that wanted them to forget were maybe the ones that gave the most of all.

It was the most they could do with what they had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeFGfulFWPY


	6. Time Will Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.”_ – Isaiah 26:3

“Do you…enjoy dancing?”

Joey gave her a grin growing out of a touch of hesitation, a touch of shyness even, as she sat across him once again in his lonely office. But even if his smile was small, a glitter in his eyes certainly wasn’t.

It was…relieving, almost, for him to react; the beginning of this third visit to the middle-aged cartoonist was arguably a bit tongue-tied. He asked her how she had been doing and she explained that recent moment that undeniably would be special for a very, very long time. The expression upon his face remained unchanged, simply listening and observing the woman in the chair past his desk as she described her silent worries for the man of ink and the musical remedy she employed that seemed to heal wounds she reopened. An unstretched, flat mouth behind folded hands, brown eyes behind his stained glasses seeming to pierce into her despite how nonthreatening the cordial old artist was. He murmured something at one point- something about “I’m so glad you have someone that keeps you from being alone,”- but that look wouldn’t leave him.

He was certainly, undoubtedly worried until the moment she assured her new life’s mentor that truly she’d done her best to leave the past be, leaving Mr. Drew flushed with ease and…something else. Whatever it was, she liked it, and so the young woman gave her own reserved yet warm nod and smile in response to his inquiry.

“I don’t really, like- dance much at all or know-…know _how_ , but…” Her eyes rolled to the floor, staring at the floorboards a ways off where shadow and reality met and blurred details of their environment. A few fluttery blinks and her gaze met his once more, a shine of their own in tender, childish vulnerability. “…I do have fun to,” she finished in a confession so soft she briefly wondered if he could hear it at all.

That is- until she saw his eyes narrow, his smile sharpen, and his head shake with a “tsk, tsk” of much the same tone as hers.

“I don’t suppose you can say you don’t know how to dance after going about dancing like that,” he countered, that expression about him now obviously a sort of playfulness. It made her cheeks a touch hotter, mouth drooping slightly in the sort of embarrassment that comes without shame.

Heaven knows it could have only gotten worse when Joey walked over and held out his hand, the frills of his undershirt’s sleeve tickling at his wrist as that mild but mischievous grin waited an arm’s length away. The other hand bent backwards behind him, completing the gentlemanly stance of someone long distanced from the society he formerly offered it to. Francine’s hand rose slowly at first in mere surprise and then…as she looked over him…-

Joey’s touch as she placed her fingertips on his in offering was so amazingly delicate, every drop of care he had in his old bones tangible in how gradually he took her hand into his. A thumb with rosy skin smoothed over her knuckles, a brief moment of what was maybe comprehension- of _humanity-_ before his hold tightened into a grip and one last look was thrown over his shoulder the woman’s way before pulling her behind and walking into the nothingness ahead, eyes smoldering quietly with anticipation.

At first, Francine was mesmerized alone by the idea that he was taking her from her seat to dance, but as he continued to move on towards the growing darkness, other things took her attention. Finally as Joey slowed to a stop some distance away from where they began, the shadows pulled away and before them was a phonograph. That- that… _definitely_ wasn’t within sight before; it made Francine’s brow furrow in confusion, but soon the draw of another mystery pulled her in- the man that was now holding her hand.

“I say…” he began in a soft, hushed voice as his free hand reached for the device, “…It’d be most appropriate for you to prove me wrong.”

And as taken aback as Francine was, she had no heart to tell him no- but had all of it to allow this.

Especially as the music played.

It was scratched; it was faded; it had all the characteristic traits of a record being played on a machine certainly much older than she, but it was also somehow…more than anything she had ever heard.

Unlike with Sammy, it was her turn to be surrounded by audible magic, and indeed “surrounded” this time around meant every meaning of the word. As the short man relinquished his hold on the phonograph’s needle to take her second palm in turn, their drifting further and further away with each slow yet confident step of his made it more and more evident that the sound wasn’t…emanating from the dusty record.

It came from everywhere.

Like it was a song straight from his heart.

Francine tried for just a moment to focus on the music alone- this _bizarre_ wonder they were suddenly encased in, looking up and all around to try to detect a singular source of the tune- but then her eyes inevitably fell back on the gold within Joey’s, and soon this sweeping away by the fatherly old man and his invisible orchestra floating around them like a breeze became a unified, singular experience.

Years of isolation couldn’t seem to deprive Mr. Drew of his well-earned whimsy and coordination, Francine in her inexperience at first having to watch her feet as the jazz swayed in and Joey took one step at a time-

“No, darling.” A soft interruption, Joey releasing his left hand to tap underneath her chin, a guiding gesture to continue to meet his dreamy, half-lidded stare. “Don’t you worry about stepping on my toes; don’t you worry about tripping over.” Something about him as she looked closer and closer- something she found so easy to trust as his head titled slightly and the slight shadow of his hat pulled over his irises to make them seem to glow even brighter. “Just close your eyes...and stop searching for the music when you can feel it right there inside you.”

And before leaving to hold her once again, his fingertips gently moved to her face to pull widened eyelids down till they shut. Just in their last sliver of sight, she saw a certain seriousness about him as he nearly whispered:

“I _promise_ you won’t fall down.”

And in a now lightless world, Francine decided she was helpless but to abide. “ _Feel it…feel it…”_ The young woman forced her mind to cease its noisy narration in order to take in a song rusted bronze with passing time.

And even with her eyes closed, Joey still hummed with satisfaction as her expression made clear that she was beginning to understand what he had meant. The floor beneath them shifted with his next stride, causing his brow to curl with worry.

“Now…promise me in return that you’ll keep them closed… And try your best.”

An awkward bob of the chin in reply, her lips pursed in concentration. And when Joey took a step back, he nearly silently sighed in relief as it became clear she was doing as was told; she did not react when behind Joey’s heels, floorboards slowly apparated like ghosts out of a fog, floating just a touch higher and higher like an ascending staircase. Francine could feel one decidedly firm pinch of his fingers as her guide chose to rise himself and her up, each pace in tandem with the music in such a way that this sensation was indistinguishable from their dance without aide of her sight.

Instead, it seemed like a sudden burst of flight to them both in distinctly different ways, and to nearly his disbelief-

The girl held within his grasp giggled.

And that decided it all.

Soon they were truly waltzing in the sky, twirling and twisting with a wonderful sort of casual grace. She could feel him pull her in and out- could hear the slight laughter just a bit ahead- as the smooth jazz picked up and calmly set them flying. She could _feel_ each note of this melody breathe into her, each soft blow of the trumpet cross between their fingertips as he took her back and forth between an arm’s length.

What she couldn’t see was a piece of wood emerge with every shift underneath the soles of her shoes, seamlessly manufacturing an experience unlike any other out of thin air.

As Joey would guide her away from one spot to form new ballroom floors, the ones they stepped upon would fade away just as they came. He briefly glanced behind him, silently marveling at this, but otherwise kept her focus sternly upon her, watching not only her happiness but her body language. Joey was a remarkable dancing partner, able to perceive with just a few hints of movement where someone wanted to go and what they would do next. Each hit of the drum, each punctuation of a piano key, he could match it to the young lady ahead, her pudgy form signaling in subtly where the music was going to take her next. A soft glimmer trailed alongside beneath them near the wood like a glare revealing a glass floor, a yellow light not unlike that which shined within the pipe’s ink if you searched hard enough to find it.

And then the song faded…and faded…and faded away…

…Until like Peter Pan’s pixie dust had lost its enchantment under their toes, they had stepped back down to the room’s true floor. Her eyes fluttered open to nothing out of the ordinary besides what she had discovered inside herself.

“Now tell me…” the ginger-haired man in a cream, ink-stained coat coaxed with that honey-dipped voice of his, “… _Can_ you dance?”

And Francine looked him over, breathless and weightless as if someone had lifted her up into the heavens as they twirled all around.

“Yeah.” A smile inched across her face as she realized not only had she made this despondent, trapped man a bit more satisfied by indulging him…but that he had done the same for her, too. “Yeah…I think I can.”

And his own grin that never once wavered in all the time she saw it only stretched farther and farther with this fantastic reassurance.

“I told you that you could trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the song being played:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SmDzj9lROAE


	7. A Broken Record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“For still the vision awaits its appointed time; it hastens to the end—it will not lie. If it seems slow, wait for it; it will surely come; it will not delay.”_ – Habakkuk 2:3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you AceofIntuition for beta reading!
> 
> Metallic made a whole bunch of art for Wonders! Please take a look!
> 
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/178511661268/metallicartist-been-reading-some-more-of  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/178609062053/metallicartist-sammy-has-his-funny-moments-v  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/178650153883/metallicartist-im-in-the-mood-to-draw-spooky

They continued on even after their flight was done, Joey humming along with the rusted but still oh so charming phonograph in the backdrop. Francine and he swayed slowly, hand in hand, as proof that maybe darkness can still contain some light- that a world devoid of God’s good graces could still find something worthwhile, worth trusting, and…

As Francine’s eyes gaped at the walls around them, the creator’s soft singing in her ear as she looked over his shoulder, she realized that there was something still worth…loving, too. It was both perplexing and so full of hope to see Joey like this; the drawings around them he still looked fondly upon- even remembered the names of the children who drew them for him; the way he let a small smile arch up his face; the way his hands held hers as he convinced her she could dance.

It was…remarkable how someone in such misery could reconcile it to find things to make his forced living worthwhile. And if she was a part of it, well…she was just that more proud to give that to him.

After all, his care was quickly something she had grown fond and familiar with, as well. Even in the distress of their first meeting, it could be spotted then he had nothing but-

…Hm.

An interesting thought came to her mind as the young woman thought back to that moment.

“Joey?”

Yet another hum but of a different sort sounded close by- an indication of acknowledgement as eyes glinting with honey-toned candlelight crossed over to his peripheral to look at Francine.

His smile did not waver, but his eyes did grow more slit with ponderance as a silence clung in the air, the only noise that of their steps occasionally shuffling over paper as an orchestral piece began to scratch against the needle more and more with each passing second.

“…How did you know to call me ‘Frankie’?”

Half-lidded eyes opened up wide alongside the raise of his brow. As they took one step together to the left, she could hear a soft huff- a chuckle as his eyes rolled down and up in thought. “Now that sounds like a question with a deeper meaning than I can guess,” he drawled with a low voice yet light humor.

And this felt like the time he should have asked her to elaborate, but as the top-hatted man let the topic go right there, Francine reluctantly found it her duty to put it back on its feet.

“That’s…” Her words were weighed with something- undeniably the tint of things she dearly missed returning to haunt her. “…What my family called me back home,” the young woman finished quietly, gaze dropping to their shoes in bittersweet reminiscence.

“…Oh.”

The ginger man of magic found the woman besides him sighing as something not so long ago was starting to become all the more distant the more she realized this was not a brief stay but one for the long term; her residency in the studio would bar her from the comforts of home, and to be called her own name was both a gift that she was still herself and not like those of the ink and a reminder that nothing would ever be the same.

Joey hated the quiet of sadness. He’d had enough of it on his own. To see it infect the girl that had come so far to simply find some sort of peace…-

“I always call people by their preferred name, darling,” the dandy lost to time filled the silence, “Simply the way to be I’ve always strived for.”

At first, another exhale from her weary lips at his consoling, and Joey saw her eyelids lower and her head tilt down until it was rested against his shoulder. And like the father he was, one hand moved from the grip of dancing to a tender hold at her back. No, he couldn’t give her life back, but he was discovering moment after moment that he could make the eternity here something like a bit more like it.

And as he relished in this one kindness in his world of inflictions open those who deserved none, Francine found herself furrowing her brow.

“Joey?” she asked again, almost like a child to the omniscient parent.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I…don’t remember telling you that.”

Her eyes flickered as well as they could from this vulnerable position to try to spot his. For a split second, their gazes did meet, but then his eyelids fluttered about as soon as they did.

“Oh, yes, of course you did! Right when we first met, my dear girl!” He patted her back, the laugh in his chest felt even as he pulled back to hold her by the shoulders, giving her a skewed grin between the red sideburns at his jaw. And then, the underneath of his eyes pinched as his head titled in a quirky sort of questioning expression. “Don’t you remember?” was his soft request for her to reevaluate.

And as the cream-suited figure pulled back, a Bendy pin on his lapel smiling up at her too, Francine let her pupils roll up in their sockets as a lip pursed till she could find some answers.

“…Ah,” she murmured something. And then her face lit up. “Ah, ah yeah-! Yeah. You’re right.” She could feel her face grow red, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

An amused but benevolent chuckle made Joey smile even more as he reached to pat her now flushed cheek. “Nothing to worry about!” This voice about him- the confidence, the joy, the compassion…it was so, very different from when Francine and he first came face to face at his ocean of ink. Even in her own aches of remembering the people who used to call her “Frankie,” she couldn’t help but wonder if the man that repeated it to her now was also somehow…by her own hand…

….Maybe was becoming the person who he used to be, too.

And as his hand pulled back and the shadow over his eyes from the brim of his hat made his irises glitter like gold, she could only surmise that returning old feelings was something good for him to have.

“I know that danger can…skew your perception, to say the least,” he added, grin stretched wider just a split second in an emphasis of sympathy, accompanied with a slight bounce of the head not too far from that of a gentleman tipping his hat.

She returned that flicker of a smile, eyes softening and a hushed breath leaving her nose. A lot…did happen. As her eyes left him as his hold readjusted to begin their mindless waltz once again, she stared at the dust motes she could barely see in this stream of yellowish light over the scrawled drawings of the character Joey once loved the most. It was the same light and the same face, in a way, that looked down upon her at her most vulnerable. From when the creature saved her life, gave her the phone, and stood behind her as she dared to find her way without Sammy. Same grin, same ink, same light. Amazing how it could be so comforting yet so terrifying every step of the way.

And then…she began to think. Maybe their swaying was simply the perfect way to get her mind to drift where it hadn’t before, but yet again, something didn’t sit right. She stared down at Joey’s shoes- so shiny and polished somehow despite the dust of immortality- and she frowned again. Character… Undeniably, the ink demon was somehow forged in the image of the little, witless star of the old cartoons scattered like ripped film across the studio. Their lord was one mystery in himself, but…

Yes, she saw Alice too. Even in the interruption of sculpting her face, the woman that taught Francine to sing resembled the pie-eyed toon she saw here and there; she was a broken toy come to life, one to match all the dolls that’d never see the arms of children.

The…butcher gang, even- Francine recalled their title from the poster or two she spotted amid Heavenly Toys. Even as they resembled voodoo dolls more than the drawings- that much was clear with only the brief glances she had of their intended form- the studio’s mortal wanderer was only stopped by the aghast of horrific images of human eyes and extra mouths on beings that shouldn’t exist to believe that they were real at all.

But there was one she couldn’t make out, no matter how hard she tried, and without second thought, she assumed the man that knew so much could answer what Sammy did not when she asked him some time before.

“Would you know about Boris?”

Something- something immediately changed. She could feel it.

“…Excuse me, my dear?” the voice at her side returned in a slight, high pitch.

“Boris the wolf.” Opportunistically, the flow of the dance led her and he to step back from one another and have their arms meet over the gap, giving her the chance to show Joey her furrowed brow and curious eyes. Her own voice was smooth, slowed with wonder and unsure thoughts. “He’s on all the posters. But…I haven’t seen him yet. I’ve seen every other cartoon but him.”

The last statement came out soft with a look that darted over his rosy face just a little- maybe at the first mention of the life he had before his creations became something so much more and worse than he had imagined. Something did change over him as he met her eyes- a blink indicating he was searching for something to say.

“Well I suppose we could find you a reel of his segment ‘Sheep Songs’ if you’re really so eager to see more of him-”

 _“No-”_ she interrupted, voice slightly sharp with concern but soon subdued as she saw his own eyes glinting and brow curl with worry. “Like…I mean…- _him._ Real. Everything else in…some way became real!” Instead of them joining back together in their swaying, souls old and new remained separated as something dawned over them both. “But I haven’t seen Boris yet.” Joey felt her hand’s grip grow firm as her voice grew more hushed, yet again witnessing her beseech him for answers. “Do you…have any idea about that?”

His sigh was audible, stance ceasing to be ready to hop back into the call of the music floating in the backdrop as he chose to merely hold her hand, taking one step closer and lifting it up near his chest. Fingers from both of his hands wrapped around hers, mouth stretched back in a helpless sort of care.

“…No, Frankie,” he answered in almost a whisper, a gaze of pity looking her way. “Not the foggiest idea.” And almost as an afterthought- “How strange.”

And just as an admittance of ignorance seemed to bring yet another pause to here yearning for truth-

“Henry.”

Her sudden, single word made his eyes pop wider than she’d ever seen before.

“…I beg your pardon.”

“I saw that name- I saw it written next to ‘Boris’ in the place I’ve been staying at.” She paused, studying his new expression. “Do you…remember a Henry? Was he a cartoon, too?”

Joey winced.

Indeed, not only did she release his long lost wonderful, delightful personality of a world filled with color, but also the pandora’s box of fear from when he first saw said color drain for good.

“No darling,” the most haunted, horrified man in the world manage to say with only a slight quake in his voice. The darkness of days once filled with sunshine washed over him, and if not for her squeezing back, his hands might have gone limp to his sides as they held hers. Abruptly, he could no longer match her look with his, and his head twisted down and to the side to stare towards his desk- flowers, candles, and papers abound. His next breath out was like his soul still clawed his nails into the very words he said, both never wanting to let go and lamenting that he could not.

“That was my son.”

And all she could say was “Oh.” What else could you say to that? To reminding someone you’ve grown to feel for of the person he fought so hard to keep only for him to fall through his fingers?

And indeed, even if his hold was laxed by the sting of redemption never to be, she found as she nearly slipped her hand away in surprise that Joey would not let her go too. So to that, she could only give the simplest of commiserations.

“I’m…I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” And a blush of a guilt of a different kind than before came across her face, her stare, too, shifting away just as his did. Maybe back before the supernatural simply became the natural, Francine would abide by life’s lessons of politeness and to put one’s grief before her own desires. Maybe she wouldn’t have continued to let her mind stray once more, even in or possibly even because of the presence of the man ahead, clearly despondent with loss.

But now she knew his loss, too- that of her _own_ family. And that steered her towards something entirely new.

“Wait.” As she spoke again, his thumb rubbed over hers, his consciousness still somewhere far away as she began to mumble something hardly audible. “Why was his name there?”

But then the pain on his expression spread until it became something sharper- a blade of past hurt cutting across his face until he saw there was great reason to be bothered about the present. He gave an “oh” once more and a grimace to match, holding the girl’s hand a bit tighter between his, head shaking side to slightly much like a father would.

“Now what did I tell you about worrying?” he reminded her gently, urging her yet again not to look at things she can’t understand. This was the most precious wisdom he had- the best he could give to her.

“Joey…I think this is different.” And she matched a look of growing perplexity with one of her own, he worried about her and she worried about him. The more and more she thought about it…yes- the more and more she realized.

If this was true, it could be important. To _him._ And so every word tumbled out of her mouth, she only knowing their truth the second they came forth.

“I read your son’s name,” she whispered, eyes glinting at his as if it could make him see what she had seen.

Brown eyes grew wide as if he did.

“I saw it…-I saw it written next to Boris-! They-” She saw the writing again in her mind- the tally marks underneath their names. “They were playing a game…!”

And then, finally, her hand pulled out of his, nothing to do but throw her hands to her sides and take in what she had just said. She had uncovered something that wouldn’t change her life forever…but rather that of the man that stood ahead.

And he had to know, as much as he found ignorance to be bliss.

“Joey,” she could hardly believe herself telling him, “I think Henry and Boris-…I think they were _here.”_

One final, jarring scratch of the record and the music was no more, the record spinning in silence. And Joey still found his arm still reaching out for her just as it had been led to when she slipped away. But eventually, eventually…it curled back to his chest, as if making himself smaller, whites of his eyes shining as they stretched wide underneath the shadow of his studio’s gloom.

But yet again, he had learned that the best response to truth being laid down at your feet is not to deny it but to accept it. And so in a voice calm for everyone’s sake, he managed to level his gaze in order to hold her hand as she wandered into something beyond her reckoning just to help his old, forsaken soul.


	8. Looking Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“All day long he craves for more, but the righteous give without sparing.”_ \- Proverbs 21:26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so first off I got another piece from Meta for Parables!
> 
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/178828106668/metallicartist-little-something-i-did-while
> 
> And! Fern from tumblr has started writing a big crossover fic in which Francine, my Joey, and my Bendy are included! Here's the chapters that have them so far!
> 
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/178841630703/into-the-ink-hell-chapter-5-gingie
> 
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/178859742188/into-the-ink-hell-chapter-6-gingie-and-felix
> 
> Finally, thank you AceofIntuition for beta reading! As always, this wouldn't be the same story without you! <3

To the man whom she revealed that not only had his search for his son so many years ago led to this darkness, she now said to him that maybe, just maybe, the darkness eventually reached Henry and consumed him too. The possibility that he came back for his father, the dread that since neither human here together have seen him? That maybe he was gone for good?

To all this the ginger merely said:

“I know.”

Of course, her jaw dropped.

“You… _know?”_

As she took a step back in wonder, a hand raised to her chest, he held his own hand- too- still much the same way. What differed, though, was meeting her gaze. Joey’s nose was turned down and away from her prying eyes, but it could not hide the slight glimmer of candlelight that revealed so very well how his eyeballs shook in their sockets.

He remained silent, but she simply couldn’t stand it.

“Joey…?” Francine whispered, upper body leaning forward almost like it could help her hear whatever thoughts threaded his mind. His mouth slightly twitched back, a tremble in his lip.

It only occurred to her then that maybe he was holding back tears.

“I do, darling,” was his calm, hollow answer, staring ahead at the vast nothingness; it was much less scary than to face her. “I do.” A subtle inhale, a slow blink. “I could never forget even if I tried.”

A noise- not only the gasp but the beginning of a statement- but one that was left unfinished, merely a squeak in the air as Francine found no way to follow up her ideas with no known description. As if he had heard a baby cry in the middle of the night, Joey followed her sharp breath with closing eyes and a soft voice, answering a question she didn’t even know to ask.

“He’s gone, Frankie.”

The palm of one balled fist came to her mouth underneath a brow furrowed in utter disbelief. There was something so, so tender as his expression readjusted to rest upon her; something unbelievable, unspoken, and uncharted in how his wide eyes wrinkled, how his lips parted slightly, and how those golden irises beheld at her as if he saw something she could never.

Despite how much it had to do with her, too.

But she couldn’t see that, so the firmness in his worried regard suddenly made her bold to know more.

“Will you…tell me what happened?” A quiet, high-pitched, even innocent inquiry, but it was still something brave indeed.

She hoped he could be brave, too, whatever that entailed to someone who lost so much.

“Now that is something that I _don’t_ know, darling,” he confessed so unfathomably quietly that you could almost hear his mouth move more than you could hear the syllables of words upon his lips. And as he shook his head side to side in a silent, patient plea for her to stop reminding him of everything he missed, what was uttered next by the man with the softest eyes in the world would only invite the worst.

“I can only assume he died like everyone else.”

Now it became clear that the nature of this conversation up till now had meant something very different to the old man than it did to the young woman. She had assumed loss. She had assumed sadness.

But she could never. Ever. Assume this.

Not one death, much less more.

And it being so much to take in at once, she felt her knees buckle and the hand at her mouth press harder and harder until surely it’d leave marks on her skin. Francine tried to sparse this out- Henry, his son. Henry was here. Henry was with a Boris. Both were gone.

_And there were others much the same way._

But Francine, oh Francine…even if it was her demise, she couldn’t stop herself from empathizing so much that she’d ask what never should have been. Something crossed her mind- something instinctive, from trying to put herself into the shoes of this lost soul lingering in front of her until the end of time.

“…How do you know that?”

And as this was spoken, her hand lowered and a guise of shock became one of skepticism. Not of malevolence, no; she sensed none of that in his words, and he had no reason to lie and keep secrets when the truth of his sins was so bare in the shape of their environment. So it was not suspicion of Joey that motivated a narrowing gaze.

It was a hope against hope that it couldn’t be true because there was no way Joey _could_ know.

And what’s more, but only for her own sake, no way she could believe anyone before her had died.

And maybe Joey meant not what she feared most. Maybe he meant his boy was merely among the others when the studio itself was dragged into the unholy puddles of eternity. That, surely, would in a sadistic, selfish way make Francine feel better than accepting the taking of human life in the very same way she had feared all along she could be taken as she stood living among the dead.

If Henry was flesh and blood when he was in the studio, that changed everything, and so in this brief interlude of ponderance, she prayed that she wasn’t simply the protagonist of his story retold.

His mouth opened but did not speak for the longest moment. Ink stained glasses and the shadow of a black and cream top hat could hardly hide the way his eyes looked back at her- something so, so aware. Shoulders rising and falling with the most conscious lungfuls of breath in the world, Mr. Drew stepped forward in the gloom until the bronze of irises became less like a glitter and more like they themselves truly glowed.

“I know, my dear, because I saw it,” he informed her gently, in contradiction to what this all had to mean. “I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

And before she could even respond to it, Francine felt a grasp yet again. Gentle at her wrist, the wanderer amid sin noticed it was still a hold firm. And now, she could finally identify that look in his trembling eyes. It was only, purely the greatest of care that honeyed his tongue until it seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth in nervousness of a suitable delivery.

“Frankie-” She felt him come closer before she noticed it with her eyes. “I…I need to emphasize how little I joke of this.” A thumb smoothed over the vein right at her wrist, a small bump that suddenly felt so, very vulnerable. “When people have come here, up until you-…they’ve _died.”_ And suddenly, a bit louder, a bit more of a curl in his brow. “They come here, and they _die.”_

Wait.

She realized something.

The heart in her chest pounded. Oh god. Oh _fucking_ god.

What he just said…no, it wasn’t that he had to be wrong.

It was that she already knew this too.

Sammy said this himself long ago when he first earned her trust-

_“My lord…punished me harshly the first time I tried to offer a sacrifice.” He sounded fully haunted by this memory; this sentence alone stained her with dread as well, and yet there was more to come. “And then…my savior stopped me once again from shedding blood. But unlike the one before you, you were…” She felt his gaze over her whole body, observing the marvel of her existence. “You were already dying.”_

-…She had known from the start that this fate wasn’t hers alone.

Shit.

But she had ignored it just to make her living seem less special than it already did as people of ink told her over and over they envied what she had.

_And they envied what she had retained against all odds._

The truth that she wasn’t special at all besides all but her continuing to live was compartmentalized away; she had to cope with the hurt of everyone else before that of herself, and so she never thought about this key truth of her new world again until today.

So it hit her like a brick.

Suddenly and yet finally, Joey’s hand properly pressed into hers amid all her personal chaos, and his other rose to claim her shoulder, Joey pulling himself closer and closer in so that all she could see was him and the veracities of magic and ink held in his wise stare.

And just as abruptly, instead of saying something more to explain all this, it then became his turn to interrupt himself with a gasp.

In response, through the darkness, Francine lifted her gaze inch by inch until it was no longer upon Joey but behind his figure. Amid the murk, the slightly fluttering faces of child-drawn paper were joined by their brother, hardly noticeable at a glance. And at first, she didn’t respond; all was so, unnaturally still.

But then came a **drip.**

And it took nothing more for the most composed man in the world to let out a yelp, pivoting on his heels to face the ink demon just as **he** came to face _them._

Francine saw arms in front of her, Joey throwing them outstretched to his sides. And as her breath was held and his became sharper, clearer, more burdened by the second, a chill shot down her spine like a falling icicle. She came to comprehend that Joey was standing between her and the god of his own design.

A flurry of blinks looked ahead at the beings she believed to understand most and least, and her mind raced to make sense of the lord’s unexpected appearance.

And meantime, Joey did what Francine had done not too far before when last facing the threat of hyperventilation. Behind smeared glass, his gaze upon the ink demon was taken by closing lids. Breath by breath, he managed to steady until the slight quiver in his arms and shoulders became as still as the air about them.

Then came the longest second in the world.

…The demon took a step back and the summoned portal took omnipotence incarnate just as it came. All drops of ink faded one by one until the smoky shadows fled into nothingness and the beads upon each former Bendy fan’s page shrunk and dwindled out of existence.

Finally, finally, Francine could hear herself breathe again, and the fingers that had come to her chest noticed the racing heart underneath.

But Mr. Drew? He remained as he was, still outstretched, still facing someone who was no longer there.

“…Joey?”

Silence. She watched her own hand rise and curl fingers in front of her until they unevenly unfolded and reached for his turned shoulder.

 _“Joey…?!”_ she repeated, desperate for a reply- anything, please, anything at all-!

Then…the shuffle of feet. As he gradually turned to look back at his beloved company, the emptiness left by the ink demon made that very slight pant upon his lips loud and the dawning sharpness upon his expression shine so bright in the dark.

Francine could name this look she gave him, but she did not understand.

Surely, it was determination.

“…You’ll be safe, Frankie,” he finally spoke, as if he promised a child there’s no such thing as monsters. And indeed, the girl he addressed could distinguish the distinct ring of fatherhood in his voice, steadying him until she could feel it try to steady her.

“You’ll be safe.”


	9. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you.”_ – Luke 11:20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's more wonderful art Metallic made for me of Sammy, one from a chapter and one a wonderful visualization of him as half human! Thank you so much!
> 
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/178918543183/metallicartist-inktober-day-10-whos-laughing  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/178994576493/metallicartist-a-little-scene-from
> 
> Thank you AceofIntuition for beta reading again!!!!

“Francine…” a voice beckoned gently through the doorway, “…Are you alright?”

Sammy tilted his head as he called the first of two names this studio had given her, the pipes above seeming to hum a bit more loudly than when he saw her last. This entire situation was…bizarre, and that was a word that defined every experience in their shared disciplehood in the first place. After their dance, she left in excitement to roam the halls- something about being “too energetic” to stay still- and when she came back?

Not a word.

She simply passed him by without even a glance, walked down the hall, and sat upon the saferoom’s gurney. So of course, he’d wonder what he did wrong.

And as he laid eyes upon her, surely it must have been a wound that cut deep.

Feet placed upon her bed and pink bag held to her chest, the woman was curled into herself, arms wrapped around fabric with bent knees just passed. Her head was tipped down and he couldn’t see her face.

But the way her backpack shuddered within her embrace said it all.

“Did…” Oh god. He let her go. He trusted her- and he knew he could- but it was his mistake to trust _everyone else._ As Sammy finished entering this makeshift bedroom, so was he slowly committing to ask her something truly terrible. “Did something… _happen?”_

And for some reason it felt oh so awful for him to come closer, one step at a time till he loomed over the woman.

And she didn’t answer.

“Francine….?” The man began to fall to his knees, the flat eyes upon his mask urgently searching for hers as their heads became level. And so painfully slow, so painfully barely, she lifted her forehead and showed a sliver of her weary gaze.

…He hadn’t seen her this hollowed in a long, long time, he soon realized. And just after seeing her so, dare he say, _happy_ in his dancing arms, it made him all the more sick. What if…what if she had found Alice again? In her horrid need to know, Francine asked Alice yet again what she knew about the prophet.

What if the reason she seemed so upset in this moment- in his presence- was because she now heard the awful things he did in the last, precious moments he had of being alive?

But if that was so, then she did not say.

She merely stared.

Now from her point of view? There was a lot of reasons to stay silent. She wasn’t even sure what to say. What _could_ she say?

As she remembered her promise to Joey, she knew it was nothing.

Despite how much it was to keep locked away- secret upon secret now death upon _death-_ even in such great distress she still felt a newly ingrained instinct to abide by her word and give none of Joey’s.

And so until she could find a way to excuse it all, all she could offer Sammy was the minimum- a look back into eyes that weren’t his. In the following quiet, upset choking them both, something about that gaze of his seemed more and more…meaningful.

An expression filled to the brim with helpless misery upon her grew sharper and sharper with each passing thought, each saved memory. At first, Sammy’s voice, again remembering the phrase that made her realize she was not the first on death’s doorstep here. It was mixed in with pointless little spots of her life- flickers of the first girl she fell in love with giving her a bright smile, a small hand that was hers holding that of a version of her father much younger than she saw him last, and of course…Gabby proudly giving her a periwinkle, pink, and orange-yellow scribble that he dubbed to be the best portrait of herself she’d ever see-

But then among these faces and voices, almost out of nowhere…-

_…Joey’s._

Recollections of their time together- so little compared to that with the others yet so very poignant- echoed in her mind. And her most recent moment with a man dressed in light was somehow the most unsettling of all in this world of darkness:

_"Joey," she could hardly believe herself telling him, "I think Henry and Boris-…I think they were here."_

_"I know."_

And as she wandered her own memory to try to piece it all together, she found herself stumbling. Something felt…off.

Wait a second.

…

…

He…

_Lied._

As her mind began to speak to her- distress making sense out of the blue- she realized he _blatantly_ lied not even a minute after he said he didn’t know where Boris was at all.

Her nose wrinkled as it snuggled into her bag, now pressed tighter to her chest. Why would he lie…? There’s no reason to lie about that…

Right?

But just as she pushed that thought away, something else came:

 _"It keeps me away from everyone else. Traps me. Confines me in body, mind…_ heart _…and voice. Somehow, you broke in."_

And despite how much she wanted to ignore it, something tugged at her heart. Wouldn’t let this go. It’s just being paranoid- looking for answers in places that would never hold them-

And yet, she noticed…

She… _broke_ in.

And that’s when drifting thoughts became something more.

_“You've been here for a bit of a while, my dear girl. And I haven't once heard you talk about what you were like- only…what others were like."_

How would he _know_ how long she’s been here if he was trapped like he said he was…?

_"Calm down. Now I don't want you to fret over things we can't understand. It won't do you any good- not at all."_

And he…he…-

He didn’t want her to ask _questions…?_

 _"Frankie, the demon…has been kind to you-... it sounds like…Impossibly so. And so has my-..._ his _studio, in your presence."_

Dear God in heaven, what the hell does that-?

_"I can only assume he died like everyone else."_

_"…How do you know that?"_ she had asked. That first ray of light the young woman finally began to shed on this mystery- not even knowing it.

_"I know, my dear, because I saw it," he informed her gently, in contradiction to what this all had to mean. "I didn't have a choice in the matter."_

He.

Saw it.

He saw Henry _die._

…Joey…- the studio…- the demon…-

As Sammy saw her become more and more disquiet with something in the air he could never fathom- her breath steadily venturing into hyperventilation- he finally got the sense that maybe he should be panicking too. He didn’t notice the way the dust motes in the studio’s aura seemed to freeze in place, the way the shine upon his slicked-black skull no longer moved with his dripping body- the way it wasn’t only the breath in their lungs that stilled.

The darkness that began to cling to the walls.

_“Francine?!”_

The woman by that name jolted up with a gasp, her eyes so wide Sammy could almost step through them.

And indeed as she sat there, his hand firm on his shoulder- clutching in hopes to grasp whatever was pulling her mind away- she saw more than she had ever seen before.

The pulse in her heart shook and shook and shook until she could feel it sicken and sour ferociously as it boiled up to her jaw- her lips- her fingers-

Sammy stared down, hoping the unwavering gaze of their eternity’s lord among them upon his mask could help calm her through whatever trauma she was suffering through once more.

He could never be more wrong.

With Sammy ahead of her- that scarred face of Bendy was matched by one after another of all the toys, clocks, posters as her eyes darted across the room.

The faces of their god had been watching her everywhere.

Everywhere.

_Every step she had ever taken._

And then she settled back onto he that embodied their lord’s everlasting watch- Sammy Lawrence and his marred mask of faith.

His staring.

Staring.

Seeing.

_Seeing._

_SEEING-_

Sammy let out a cry as suddenly, the unthinkable happened. He felt his grasp become utterly ripped off her shoulder and wrist captured and jerked sharply away from where they stood, the sound of thin wood clattering to the floor after in one single, swift blow-

…Francine had slapped his mask right off.

That short run from the bedroom to the bathroom lasted an eternity to a man now blind thanks to the violence of the woman she called a friend. His shoulders slammed into the wall of the first stall as he clumsily slipped with her ceasing flight, clumsily skidding to a stop. He couldn’t decide if his breathing was louder or his racing heart. As he clambered his way back to full height- about to yell her name once more for an entirely different reason- his teeth felt a palm press roughly, frenziedly over them.

 _“Sammy-!”_ Her voice was hushed yet so very, _very_ harsh with an emotion he could not name…as it was one he never heard before. Just as he felt his own racing pulse, he could feel his both through her desperate touch and the unsteady voice coming what must have been not even an inch from him. “Sammy- I- _SHIT-…_ I need you to listen to- _I need you to listen to me.”_ With words quivering like an earthquake came a fumbling grasp for the arms at his side, forcing him to tense far more than he ever knew possible. “I- I haven’t told you everything. I was- I was scared to. But I found something out- I found out something- the, the _mask!_ He can _SEE!_ Sammy, he _\- he CAN-”_

And up until that moment, no one had noticed something had changed with each passing word from her trembling lips. In Francine’s panic, she didn’t notice the shadows shifting on the walls into new but oh so familiar shapes, and with her back turned and the man with no eyes facing behind, there was only one single sign of what was to come.

**Drip.**

That was the last sound before he heard her scream…only for the shriek of her voice to be taken in a second, not even an echo ringing to prove that she was ever in front of him at all. The rough, burdened breaths of his lord ripped through the air much like his claws did ahead of him, snatching away yet another human being. There was a sharp muffle of her screeching as one hand smothered her mouth, surely dragging her wildly, _viciously_ by the head and torso. Her hair stuck to the musician’s oily, cursed skin as it flung violently back with the sudden force.

The air was emptier yet so, very full of something inexplicably way too much for any mortal soul to bear, and every syllable cried- every **drop** that began to pour down until a drizzle turned into a hurricane with each leap Bendy made to capture his prophet’s sacrifice- became louder than sound itself. Oh, so familiar. Oh, so glorious dreadful like watching heaven tear open and pour out its oily rain and broken veins till blood both red and black shed.

It was happening all over again, and somehow it felt even worse.

Indeed, as the demon dragged her into his portal in one fell swoop- feeling her fingers gasp desperately at his suspenders before being pried off almost as soon as they came and failed to never let go- he could hear Francine scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the arc but not the series. Not just yet. Expect another chapter- hopefully within a week or two- under a new work that directly continues the story ;)
> 
> You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this moment. Thank you guys, immensely, for joining me. I'm going to show you everything as it is really soon.
> 
> I'm so excited.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve actually gotten so much art that the character limit won’t let me put in all the links at the end notes! WOW!!!! Thank you, everyone!!! You’re all amazing and ilysm!!!! <3  
> I will be adding links to fanart as I post chapters, but please check the following tags. I’ve categorized things by arc/drabble so that you don’t get spoilers.
> 
> The overall tag for Hymns fanart is here:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/hymns-art
> 
> The tag for Hymns of Struggle as the first work alone is here:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/hos-art
> 
> Wonders of Heresy:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/wonders-art
> 
> Parables of Empathy:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/parables-art
> 
> Flickers of Faith:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/flickers-art
> 
> Tides of Longing:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/tides-art
> 
> Cares of Communion:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/cares-art
> 
> Dances of Duality (this work you just read!):  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/dances-art
> 
> A Rock in the River:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/a-rock-in-the-river-art
> 
> What’s Not Yours:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/wny-art
> 
> General/Crossover Art:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/general-art
> 
> Any art involving Gingie (the Joey of this AU):  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/tagged/gingie-art
> 
> And a commission of Gingie painted by my good friend Ace hehe:  
> https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/177183125008/aceofintuition-is-there-anything-quite-so
> 
>  **And here’s a playlist I’ve made:**  
>  https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLY8pGhalYoCuHX0dLpmuY3jNYntmUjltg
> 
>  **Read this if you plan on being so kind as to make me art yourself!!!!** (Some of it applies to content not canon to Hymns but still applies here):  
>  https://pipesflowforeverandever.tumblr.com/post/176339938068/so-with-aces-permission-im-going-to-sort-of-add
> 
> Thank you everyone for your support!!!!!! I couldn’t do it without you!!! <3 <3 <3 Special thanks to the artists that have given me so, so much more than I could ever ask for:  
> Ace, Star, Silver, Gia, Metallic, Lil Griffin, Ufopilots, June, Halfie, Fern, Moonshadow0, Mango, CrowSketches, A-Rae-Of-Sunshine, Queen
> 
>  **THIS ISN'T THE END OF THE FIC, BY THE WAY!** Go ahead and read the next work in this series!


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